Illusions of the Sun
by ILoveYouDearly
Summary: When Roy Mustang enlists help from a psychiatrist in an effort to ease the violence of his nightmares, he is forced to come to terms with perhaps the biggest mistake of his life - losing her. Roy&OC Slight AU.
1. Confession

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, FMA.

Purely made of the enjoyment of you, and I.

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**Authors Note**: Roy is perhaps a bit OOC in this chapter, however, when you assess the emotional state he's in, it's only natural he wouldn't be his high-fly, sarcastic-remark-shooting, womanizing, bastardtastic self.

And I know Riza doesn't have a sister.

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_Summary: When Roy Mustang enlists help from a psychiatrist in an effort to ease the violence of his nightmares, he is forced to come to terms with perhaps the biggest mistake of his life - losing her. _

Illusions of the Sun

A Roy Mustang Love Story

**Chapter One** - Confession

"Your name, sir?"

She hadn't even bothered to look at him.

The man sucked his teeth in response, his head swaying right, then left as he glanced at the occupied chairs on either side of the receptionist's desk. There were no familiar eyes in the faces that greeted him with either sneers or frowns. He, for a long moment, eyed the empty doorway situated between a pudgy looking brunette and a lanky teenager, pink eye shadow making the boy's eyes shimmer.

_'It's three o'clock exactly,_' he thought, panic rising slowly in his chest. '_Where is she?_'

Ducking his head down close to the small half-sun opening in the glass that kept the woman safely tucked away and protected from visitors, the man sighed, keeping his eyes on the door, before replying in a soft, light voice, "Sebastian Brumby."

The man moved his gaze to the receptionist as the woman used a pen-tip to follow her eyes as she scrolled down a long page of names.

"Brum-bee, Brum-bee," she muttered before clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth, making a face or two at the sheet. "Did you call for an appointment today?"

She glanced up, her nose wrinkled, her jaw grounded. When their eyes met the ugly look dropped from her features. Brumby was still bent over at the waist, elbow on the counter, nose dangerously close to the glass. _Too close for comfort._ The sparkle that crossed her irises made the man instantly straighten his spine.

"My -er - _wife_ called in yesterday, made the appointment," he explained dumbly, keeping his tone as even as he could.

The flirty smile that had began to creep up the woman's face disappeared instantly.

"Well," she said, quite matter-of-factly, her nostrils' flaring, "Mr. Brum-bee, your _wife_ has **not **phoned us. You're not on the list for today."

Inhaling, his breath shook against his chest. Panic was rising faster.

"But you don't understand, Miss," Brumby said in the lightest tone he could muster, smiling. "I _have _to see someone today."

He made damn sure that that last word was clear, emphasized, and to the point.

"Wish as you may," the woman forced a smile in return, "No appointment, no service."

Brumby swallowed, his Adam's apple dropping. The bruises under his eyes, they seemed to throb for a long, echoing moment, and a few sheets of red flashed and twisted over his already unfocused vision. An immense heat of something close to fire coursed in his blood, singing, laughing, taunting.

Pulling at the collar of his shirt, he held back a very, very strong urge to scream.

"I still," Brumby whispered after clearing his throat, urgency in his low tone, "Don't think you understand."

"Sir," the receptionist hissed, "She has other clients with _actual _appointments. There's nothing I can -"

"Sebastian?"

Brumby instantly glanced over, to the left, to the once empty doorway where a tall, blonde woman now stood. She had gold in her eyes and a familiar smile.

"Y-Yes?" the man choked.

"Come with me," the woman called, waving her hand towards herself, beckoning him over, like some shy child. He obliged, feeling no wound to his ego.

Starting across the space between the desk and the door, he heard the receptionist start barking that there was another appointment, that Brumby wasn't on the list, that she couldn't just go against three years of structure and regulation for some random man.

"Linda is almost always late," the woman explained, evenly, as Sebastian came to her side, "When she comes in, please tell her I am running a bit late. She will understand."

"But, _Hannah_," the receptionist complained, clearly annoyed.

"_**Tell her**__, _I am running late," the woman nearly yelled, before putting a smile back on her face and glancing at Brumby. "Come on, we'll talk in the back."

Turning on her heel, she started down the hallway. The man threw a fleeting glance over at the receptionist, but only saw of the top of her head. He apologized with a narrow of his eyes and crossed out the mental desire he had to strangle her.

"Mr. Brumby?"

Sebastian moved his gaze back to the hallway, watching Hannah gesture towards him from about a yard away, a small, sad frown on her face. Quickly, stumbling a bit, he paced the length between them and followed the blonde down the rest of the corridor, to the right, and down another poorly lit hallway. They passed a half a dozen doors, all shut, before reaching their destination, the last office at the end of that second corridor.

Hannah opened the door with a flick of her wrist, light filtered through the crack into the darkened hallway, creating a slanted box of illumination across the floor and over onto the opposite wall. Brumby watched as the box increased in width, a slight fascination dancing in his dark eyes. Moonlight was prettier, but he had forgotten the way the sunlight grabbed onto things and touched every part of darkness when it was present, blocking out the black.

"Do you just want to stand out in the hallway?" an amused voice asked, sounding far away. Brumby looked up and he glanced into the room, finding Hannah no longer at his side.

The woman was sitting at a desk, her back facing a large, one-way glass window, proudly showing Central's skyline and all the beauty it possessed.

He stepped in the room, remembering the task at hand, and closed the door with a soft click, he paced the length between he and the wooden, uncomfortable looking chair opposite Hannah, and sat down, slowly, carefully.

The light shining through the window was starting to make his head spin.

"I hope you know I could lose my license for this."

Hannah's tone didn't seem so friendly anymore.

"All I need is something to help me sleep," Brumby said, cutting to the chase, looking down at the floor. "One, self-refilling prescription and I'm out of your hair."

"And to whom do I prescribe this medication ? To Sebastian Brumby, or Roy Mustang?" Hannah placed her hands face down on her desk, "Either way, someone is going to find out the Fuhrer isn't as perfect as your personnel makes you out to be."

"No, no one will," Roy whispered, trembling softly. "I've made arrangements. Someone else will pick up the pills, not me."

Hannah sighed.

"Mustang, you know I can't take clients who I know personally."

Roy shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"That's why my name is Sebastian Brumby."

"Riza might be my sister, but that doesn't mean I can make exceptions for her," she continued on, as though she hadn't heard him.

"That's why _my name _is Sebastian Brumby," Roy repeated, through gritted teeth, sinking farther into his chair.

Hannah Hawkeye swallowed, her lips dropping into a frown. Roy glanced up at her shyly, the shadow the wide brim of his fedora hat cast veiling his eyes in darkness. Hannah couldn't read his expression. Roy couldn't read hers.

Lacing her fingers together, elbows propped on the edge of her desk, the woman tucked her chin down on her digits, closing her eyes.

"We'll do an evaluation," she explained, her voice monotone, seeming to have spoken the same words a hundred times, "Have a couple of visits together, and if my medical eye sees that you need the medication, you'll get it."

The sound of wood snapping made Hannah jump, startled.

Roy was standing, the chair he once sat on half broken on the floor. She didn't understand how he could have done that, snapped both of the arms off. Roy Mustang may have been Fuhrer, he may have been the famed Flame Alchemist, but he was not some protégé of Armstrong. He didn't have that kind of strength.

Or at least, Hannah had been led to believe.

"You _know _what happened," he growled, his tone snarling and biting at the woman's throat, in some animalistic rumble that commanded obedience, "You _know _what I've been through."

Roy shook, his shoulders lulling forward as he brought a hand to his face, right thumb and forefinger finger pressing into his temples, palm and empty fingers fanning over his nose and eyes.

"I just want to **sleep**, Hannah," Roy whispered, the desperation in his voice echoing against that built-in-bookshelf, the walls, and Central's skyline. "You're my only hope."

The hardness in her eyes softened and her professional front melted away. Hannah remembered back to before the war, when he had smiled, when he had been happy. The man standing in front of her was broken, torn, shattered in so many ways the woman couldn't name, couldn't know. She stood, her seat shuffling against the wooden floor as she forced it back, rounded her desk, and waited opposite, only a meter, of Fuhrer Mustang.

"I can't just give them to you, we'll have to have some kind of communication. We can phone meetings, I'll call you every other day, track your progress, and you'll need to come in, every two weeks, so I can more fully aid you."

"I don't need help."

His tone was empty, practiced, ugly.

Reaching up, Hannah slipped her hand beneath Roy's, feeling his fingers quiver against hers when she cupped his cheek, soothing her thumb over the warm wetness that had stained his skin.

"You wouldn't have asked for it then," she observed, softly.

"Hawkeye, she-she," his voice was inky black, his lips barely moved when he spoke. "She's getting me back for not doing paperwork."

The mirth, that tried _so_ hard to jump into his voice, to morph the features still halfway hidden beneath his shaking hand, died in the syllables he blurted.

Hannah narrowed her eyes.

"When did the dreams start getting bad, Roy?"

He didn't even pause.

"They've always been bad."

Hannah sighed. "Then_ worse_."

Mustang waited a moment before pulling away from the woman, dropping his hand to side, the soft grace in which he used moved no longer making his steps even, calculated, but now were slanted, somehow timid. He made his way to the window, skimming the glass with his knuckles, elbow at the level of his waist.

He was quiet, the silence between he and the woman soft static in the air.

"When, Roy?"

More silence.

"How am I supposed to help you when you won't tell me what's going on?" Hannah inquired, half-bark in her tone, her brows furrowed, lips twitching in a grimace.

Roy closed his eyes, gritting his teeth in recollection.

"Can't you just give me the pills, can you, Hannah?" he asked, angrily, shifting to look over his shoulder at the woman.

"You came to a psychiatrist, Mustang. Not a drug dealer." She answered, crossing her arms beneath her breasts, shaking her head almost sadly.

He looked back at the window, exhaling sharply.

"Two months ago," he said, watching people pass by the building on the ground far below. He couldn't tell whether they were smiling or not, whether their day had gone as planned, or blew up in their face. There were children, adults, senior citizens. But they all looked the same to him.

Pained, Roy squinted his eyes shut, forcing back the nauseous, empty call of self-loathing that rose like bile in his chest. He had worked so hard for so long. Being a dog of the military, losing faith in humanity, and having the weight of an entire nation on his shoulders had made him forgetful of the main mission in his heart. He had promised so many people that he would bring about change, for the better. But now, as exhaustion and stress claimed his mind, he wanted nothing more than to sign his stamp of approval on any papers that came at him and go home.

"Did something happen two months ago?"

Go home to his empty apartment, his empty couch, his empty heart.

"No," he lied.

There was shuffling behind him, a hand on his spine.

"_Roy_."

"If you already know then why are you asking!?" Roy demanded to know, turning completely around to face Hannah, whose arm fell back to her side.

"You need to come to terms with it, not me," the woman explained, leveling her gaze to meet the Fuhrer's. "Verbalization is a step towards acceptance."

Roy's eyes widened, painfully so.

"So I'm supposed to _accept _that she hates me?" he yelled in question, not expecting an answer. The smile that came to Hannah's lips made him take a step back, his shoulders meeting the window behind him, ugly realization creeping up his skin.

He had admitted the one thing he had tried to ignore for the last 8 weeks, 2 days, 13 hours and 11 minutes.

"Now we're getting somewhere," Hannah grinned.

He had successfully not spoken of her for so long… so why now? Were the dreams making him talk? Did he subconsciously want someone else to know his pain? Was he really that tired, to let such guarded words slip from his mouth?

God, where _was_ she?

The banging on the door riled Roy from the darkened questions that tumbled like acrobats in his head.

"HANNAH IT'S LINNNDDAAAA!" a shrill, female voice called from behind the door with a triple knock.

"What's her name, Sebastian?" Hannah asked, as though she didn't hear the screaming outside the door, but her cover by using his fake name made the man aware that she did.

His mouth tingled. Roy had always loved her name, the way his tongue shaped to speak the syllables. She had said his name in such a pretty way too, so crisp, clear, beautiful.

Tears stung at the back of his eyes.

"Leona," he choked in a whisper.

He did not use a pseudonym.

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AN: Don't worry, you're going to get the full story of Roy and Leona, from beginning to end. However, I am in desperate need of feedback. Good idea? Bad idea? It's your call! R_&_R, please!


	2. Nightmare

Authors Note: I know, I know, things are probably going to get a bit... confusing right now. But really, sit, and sponge in the information. I promise it will be put to use later. =D I didn't get much feedback on this story, which is why I sorta stopped it for a while. But, on a whim, I started writing it again. I sorta like it. Do you?

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"It happens every time,

You stop and **close your eyes**.

You can't deny what lives _in_side you."

-The Memory Will Never Die by Default

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Illusions of the Sun

A Roy Mustang Love Story

02; Nightmare

Rated - Teen - For language.

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Hannah wondered when the strong, smug, asshole Roy Mustang had become so nervous

He twiddled his thumbs, his right foot tapping quickly on the floor, gaze shadowed by the same Fedora hat he had worn in their last meeting. The psychiatrist insisted that he remove that dirty, unflattering cap when he first arrived. His reply had been curt, honest.

"**Fuck** no."

They sat across from each other, a week exactly to the day the Fuhrer had broken her arm chair. Despite the obvious insomnia that Roy suffered, Hannah felt that there was more behind the reason of his nightmares' frightening progression. Perhaps, this character he had mentioned last time they had spoken - _Leona, was that her name? _- was a part of it? But then again, Hannah frowned, when had Roy ever had empathy, much less any type of_ long-lasting_ feeling, for a woman?

"Simple questions at first, Sebastian, I assure you," the psychiatrist started, her tone even, professional. They had agreed through written correspondence - well, more of a slanted sprawl on her notepad by the Fuhrer's shaky hand - that it would be for their better interest if his true name was not mentioned. She still found it odd to call him such a random name. He was by her definition simply Mustang - wild, free.

She missed the characteristics that had once suited him so perfectly.

"Your full name?"

His reply was as brusque as his refusal to remove his hat.

"Sebastian Leonard Brumby."

Hannah raised a brow at his choice of a middle name. Roy leaned back in his seat - the new one she had confiscated from the room next door - hands folding across his answered her silence with a half-smirk.

"My parents were high when they named me."

His voice was serious and Hannah scoffed, writing it down with a shrug.

"Age?"

"Eighteen."

Hannah looked up from her tablet and over the rim of her glasses. The bastard was making this a joke.

"These documents _may_ be counterfeit but if my superior were to walk in here and demand a look at your records while in a session, he wouldn't believe for a second you were some teenage boy."

"Then just give me the pills, Ma'am."

Hannah almost heard the amusement in his tone.

"Twenty-seven," she murmured, shaking her head and grounding her jaw in annoyance at her notepad.

"Ouch, Hannah. That hurts." Roy whined, quietly, faking pain in his voice.

She waited a moment before asking the next question.

"Have you had any desire to hurt others? Yourself?"

Roy didn't even pause before sighing.

"Yes."

"Of which kind?" Hannah implored

"Both."

The woman nodded, sighing, writing down his reaction.

"Have you tried to hurt anyone or yourself?"

"No."

"Has there been anyone in particular you've wanted to hurt?"

The chair creaked, Hannah glanced up quickly to see Roy was sitting up, his spine straight, his knuckles were white, fingers clutching the armrests of the chair.

"Yes," he replied, teeth gritted.

"That questioned seemed to upset you," the woman observed.

Roy paused for a long moment, his lips pursing between his teeth. He shifted, redistributing his weight in the wooden chair, stiffly and quite uncomfortably. He exhaled his next words in one breath, seemingly in some kind of pain.

"You said_ simple_ questions, Han."

"I'm not asking you to recite the State Alchemist's handbook from memory only," Hannah replied, voice tight. "I hardly see these questions as being something that is difficult."

"Simplicity is shit I can _make up_," Roy barked, suddenly jumping to his feet. He was shaking, arms pulled tight to his sides. Hannah remained seated, holding her breath while looking up at him silently, trying to emanate some kind of soothing energy to lull the obvious Beast inside of the Fuhrer. He was never this quick tempered before. Out of habit, she went to reach for her notebook to write her thoughts down, but jumped away the moment his hand came down hard on her desk.

"Simplicity means I don't have to_ feel_, Hannah. I didn't ask for the fourth degree, for all these stupid, idiotic questions that mean nothing to me. And, really, what do you care? Hurting people is what I do for a living. I'm a fucking _personification_ of pain."

"Why is that?" Hannah inquired, carefully.

His voice gained strength, ferocity when he retorted back, "Why is **WHAT**?"

"Why do you think it's part of your job to hurt people?"

Roy looked taken back, his loose, angry posture half-bent over Hannah's desk stiffening instantly. He jerked back, so violently that his hat tipped over the back of his head and fluttered to the ground.

It sat behind his classy, old-man shoes, waiting.

His hat was covered with a thin-line of dust, red, like the sandy ground of that long forgotten place - the bloodied battle ground sitting in the back of both their memories. It was perfectly formed, but barely looked proud. Its significance meant nothing to Hannah, whose gaze angled up to meet the Fuhrer's.

But quite obviously, it meant something great to him.

"Why do you think it's part of your job to hurt people?" Hannah inquired again, softer this time, whispering almost.

His eyes were wide, blood-shot, not onyx laced with sapphire and sunlight. His irises were gray, solid, like the color of gunpowder. Decaying, corroding, _dead_.

He seemed half as confident as he had when he'd strolled into her office fifteen minutes ago, but even then, he wasn't a third of the man that had claimed all his female personnel would prance around in mini's. He was only a fraction, a scratched piece of the shattered mirror that was once Roy Mustang - bastard extraordinaire.

"She broke the law."

Roy's voice was monotone, but somehow secretly desperate. Hannah twitched. He was avoiding her question again. But, hope flitted across her skin, perhaps this was a break through? Perhaps, this was the next step in Roy's self-reflection, his acceptance of the fact that he....

"What law?" Hannah inquired.

"I _stole_ her," his voice was shaking, wobbling, so dangerously close to crashing.

"Stole who, Sebastian?"

"I _killed_ her."

Snapping realization dawned on Hannah and stunned her completely, freezing her all the way to her toes.

"But, I loved her.  
I _loved_ her.  
I **loved** her."

He was trying so hard to apologize.

Roy collapsed to his knees, holding his head in his hands, shoulders shaking in an all out sob.

Hannah realized, holding a shaking hand to her mouth, squinting her eyes closed to hold back her own tears, that Roy wasn't talking about his job anymore.

He was speaking of his nightmare.


	3. Flowers & Fists

**Author's Note**: Thank you, so much, for the wonderful reviews.

This one, obviously, came out a bit faster because you guys are awesome and made my ego be overly inflated.

**From here on out, chapters will be flipping, between Leona's POV in the past, and Roy/Hannah's in the present time (or, in accordance with the first two chapters.)**

Plus, I just feel like it's time Leona made an appearance.

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Note: I've never written someone with an accent before. But I figured I'd give it a try. And though I searched for British slang, it was increasingly difficult and rather intimidating to try and use it in context. So, for the most part, Leona's speech is like normal English dialect. If anyone has any suggestions please, please send them to me! I would like to make her as authentic as possible.

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Illusions of the Sun 

A Roy Mustang Love Story

03; Flowers & Fists

_Leona_

**One Year Ago…**

_Ding. Ding. Ding. _

A tall, well dressed, blonde-haired man sauntered into the flower shop, a spring in his step. Casually, he sported a half-broken nose and split lip, like it was typically part of his appearance.

There was a snort from the other side of the shop before a question floated through the air.

"Ella got you _again_, Jack?"

The man pivoted away from the table of daises he had been quietly assessing for half a second and marched, nearly tripping over a potted plant near the middle of the aisle, to the service counter Leona McKay was lying on.

"Control your sister," he demanded, voice tight, upper lip quivering. He winced with every syllable spoken. "And you _do_ know that it is hardly professional for you to be lying on a counter top, correct?"

Leona's smirk was hidden beneath the choppy length of her auburn hair. She drummed her lime painted fingernails on her stomach after unfolding her once threaded fingers.

"You ask me to do something nice for you, only to insult me in my place of work," her voice was naturally light. However, her soft, English accent made her words seem not as harsh as perhaps she had intended them to be. "Obviously, Jack, you have no _clue_ how to persuade a person such as myself to do something for you."

"I assumed since your flesh and blood took a wack at my face, you would help without any sort of bribery," Jack trailed off, his lips twitching.

Leona's laugh sounded much like the toll of the door, like the chime of bells, but not quite as high.

"Ella's punches have nothing to do with me, Jacky," the woman spoke, pushing herself up so she sat on the counter. Swinging her legs over the side, she shifted to face the tall, angular man before leaning back on her palms, allowing the longer pieces of her bob to fall behind her shoulders as she continued to speak. "I could tell her to keep her pretty little fists to herself, but you and I both know that would do no good. Ella hates me with a passion I have never been able to comprehend. It's quite remarkable, really."

"She does not hate you," Jack said, narrowing his eyes, using the back of his hand to carefully wipe at the drying blood just below his nostrils.

"Oh, Jacky, I do adore your optimism but she _does_," Leona half-laughed, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "Sibling rivalry still runs deep in our veins. She's still sore that I stole that boyfriend from her in grade school. How was I to know Peter Evans was the love of her thirteen year old life?"

The question hung in the air, stagnate, for a long moment before Leona continued.

"Since then, she's sworn revenge for that little tear in her heart, claiming that my soul is "dark" and "backstabbing" and deserves to be punished."

Leona pushed herself back up, her spine straight as she drew those imaginary quotations in the air, implying that her soul was not blackish and did not stab people in the back. (Although, the smirk that crossed her thin, pink lips certainly suggested otherwise.)

Jack sighed heavily, inspecting the red on the back of his hand with a look of non-belief, his whole face pinching into a unflattering mask of complete anxiety.

He tore his eyes from the blood and to Leona's piercing, but somehow comical gaze.

"Since you refuse to at least calm Ella down, then do you at least have a suggestion on what I do about this!?" he gestured wildly at his face. "I meet a client here in _twenty_ minutes. I can hardly sell real estate looking like I have been in some kind of bar fight."

"Tell your client the truth," Leona suggested, shrugging with a half-grin. "Tell 'er that you and your ridiculously aggressive fiancé got into a little spat, and that you - being a man of honor - took the punches that she threw in the direction of your face with absolute pride."

Leona arched her fist from her side to her chest, placing her palm over her heart and bowing her head down, mockingly.

"Yes," Jack hissed, pale brows furrowing into his eyes. "Because that makes me sound like the absolute _perfect _person to be working for her."

"You lost your claim to any sort of admirable qualities the moment you asked Ariella to marry you," Leona sang with a shrug, hopping off the counter and swaying out onto the floor of the small shop, marveling at a table with roses and sunflowers. "Beguiling your clients into believing you possess even a single respectable attribute is false advertising."

The woman fanned her fingers over the petals of a rather sad looking rose-bud, watching as the flower shifted towards in the inside of her outspread digits, reaching but not quiet touching, as it with a little, nearly silent pop, it bloomed.

_Ding. Ding. Ding. _

Leona immediately pulled her arm back to her side, clenching her fingers into a fist as she shifted back onto her left foot, half-facing the tall, blonde-haired woman who came stomping into her shop.

"_I knew you'd be here_."

Her voice sounded like something close to a snake's hiss.

Leona relaxed as Jack only tensed.

"Darling," he cooed, obviously uncomfortable, wincing again as his lips twitched into a half-smile.

"Don't you, _darling_, me," the blonde retorted, stomping to the place just a yard in front of the taller, but scarcely more confident person. "What did you do!?"

Silence.

"I do not…" Jack began.

Pushing her breath out angrily through her nose, the blonde woman reached into the pocket of her jeans, retrieving something.

Suddenly, a white, rectangular piece of plastic flew through the air, arching in the sunlight that poured from the window just to the right of the service counter before doing a summersault and smacking Jack square in the forehead.

Groaning, Jack caught the offending object in question before it dropped towards the floor. He fumbled with it though, nearly juggling with it in his shaky, bulky hands before he got a good grip on the plastic with his left fingers. Exhaling sharply, bringing the item closer to his face, he inspected the object that had distressed the blonde. (And, obviously, been the cause of his split lip and bloody nose.)

Leona watched from her place at the rose table, bent at an awkward angle at her waist to the left to see over Ariella's side. She watched sideways as Jacky's eyes remained fixed on that odd little piece of plastic. She waited for any movement, any fight that she might have to break up. Jacky was a slow man when it came to certain, perhaps crucial things. Ella was infamous for her short fuse. So a parade of flying knuckles and bad words were bound to be coming soon.

Ariella's pale fists settled on her waist and her left foot went to tapping on the floor as she, too, waited for any change of expression on her fiancée's face.

"I'll punch you again, you stupid arse, if you don't give me an explanation right this damned minute!"

The harsh intent behind Ariella's voice made the usual flowery accent that she and Leona shared seem not so pretty. The screechy undertone actually made her younger sister wince.

Side-stepping, after pulling herself back up into a normal standing position, Leona silently slipped closer to the couple, watching with narrowed eyes as Jack further inspected the plastic in his fingers.

Five more seconds passed before he dropped the thing as though it had been burning his skin.

"YOU THREW YOUR PEE STICK AT MY **FACE**!?!??!"

The white plastic bounced twice on the wooden floor before it rolled precariously to the toes of Ariella's black boots.

In a matter of half a second, the object and the name Jacky had so immaturely given it exploded into a single, rather unexpected possibility in Leona's mind.

A huge smile engulfed her entire face.

"Oh, Jacky, you beautiful boy!" the younger woman shouted, nearly jumping the full distance between she and her future brother-in-law. She hugged him tight to her, her cheek nestling against the scratchy fabric of his suit for ten seconds before she sprung away, turning instinctively for her sister.

"Don't you dare -" Ariella began through her teeth, her mouth pursed into a straight line. However, before she could finish, Leona had the side of her face pressed quite inappropriately to the nearly non-existent swell of her sister's stomach.

"'Ello, cupcake," the woman started, squatting down so she was easily at the level of her Ariella's _beautiful _belly. "This is your Auntie Ona speaking to you. Now remember, when you fight your way out of there I want you to call me that. Not dimwit or bitch-face, or _whatever _your sour-puss mum might name me. You remember that, ya hear? Auntie Ona. No variation."

"An unplanned, scandalous little bundle that will ruin me before I am hardly twenty-five," Ariella sighed, heavily and dramatically.

"You are lucky Abby doesn't have ears yet!" Leona scolded, glaring at her sister from all way down at her navel. The younger woman turned her gaze back to the sheer-white fabric that covered Ariella's belly, admiring what lay beneath. "I suppose that perhaps you, little Abigail, will be the truce that binds your mum and I for the rest of our God fearing lives."

"Truce? What makes you think I want _you _anywhere nea - **ABIGAIL**?" She shot out the word mid-syllable with a note of distain, crinkling her nose with a sour look on her face. "What sort of dusty old name is that?"

"It's hers," Leona retorted, voice an octave higher than Ariella's, pressing a careful finger into the woman's belly. "Think about it, darling sister, the pink-bows, and party-dresses, and tiny boots with the fur. It will be marvelous! She'll be a princess!"

Patience obviously thinning, Ariella groaned, pushing her shorter sister away from her with palms to the other's narrow shoulders.

The girl stumbled backwards, spinning on her heel and nearly into Jack, who was staring at the duo with tears running down his face. Leona's thin, orange skirt spun around her calves, swishing against her knees.

"That was notfair, Ella," Leona complained, pouting, stomping her left foot down to regain her balance.

The blonde only sucked her teeth and crossed her arms beneath her breasts, rolling her eyes and looking away.

"A baby!? We barely have enough money as it is. With the mortgage, the wedding, the _car_." Jack started listing.

Pacing the length of the service desk, forward then back, he pivoted towards the sisters' again and cupped his face in his hands, somehow unaware of his obviously broken nose, bellowing, "Oh god, we will have to get rid of the _car_!"

Silence ensued for a total of three seconds before Jack violently ripped his palms from his cheeks and threw an accusing, deadly look in Ariella's general direction.

"How could this have _happened_?!" He demanded more than questioned.

"**You** did this!" she argued, throwing her hands in the air, letting them drop hard to her sides. "You don't even have to deal with this… this…" she searched for a word but settled for jaggedly gesturing towards her stomach, "THIS _THING_! _You_ haven't been throwing up for the past three days, _you_ haven't had any damnable cravings for chocolate and licorice, _and you, _no, _you _will not, in seven-odd months time, have to squeeze a head through -"

Ariella abruptly stopped her little speech, glancing over her shoulder.

_Ding. Ding. Ding. _

There was the sudden quiet chatter of voices - one female, the other male, at the far end of the shop. The bell rang again, as they idled in the doorway, laughing softly.

The couple couldn't see them, not from the door anyway, seeing as the trio was to the right of service counter, hidden behind a few pieces of exotic plants whose height went high above even Jacky's head.

The man let out of high-pitched shriek, a cry that Leona assumed only she and possibly canines could hear, seeing as the voices from the front of the store did not pause and Ariella stood simply staring, quite ferociously, in her general direction. Jack squatted down, half his full height, clearly hiding.

"Whatamigoingtodo? WHATAMIGOINGTODO!?" he questioned under his breath, but loudly enough that the sisters made out his frantic dialogue, burying his head in his knees. Ella simply shrugged, and sauntered from the sad little triangle they had once formed and past her fiancé and service counter, gracefully slipping behind the heavy tapestry covering the entryway to the back of the store.

Jacky looked up and threw Leona the most distressed look she had ever seen on a man, mouthing something so dramatically slow that she couldn't read his lips. However, the wild, theatrical, whole-body twisting movements he was suddenly making in the direction of the front with his arms pretty much summed up his dilemma.

_'THEY'RE HERE. WHAT THE __FUCK__ DO I DO?'_

Leona ran a hand through her hair, rolling her eyes before jutting a thumb towards the tapestry Ariella had just waltz through. Since she was the only competent being in this whole damn scenario, the auburn-haired woman assumed the duty of "saving-her-brother-in-law's-_arse_."

Whispering, she ordered, with a half-smile, "Get bac' there."

Jack nearly clicked his heels as he jumped up and into a run, bee-lining it for the place Leona had pointed to.

Before the redhead had time to even think of how to handle the situation, a soft pair of brown eyes peeked around the corner of a table filled with gigantic sunflowers.

"Hello?" a voice that seemed to match those curious eyes very well inquired.

"Ello lovely!" Leona grinned, doing her best to hide the probable surprise on her face. She had expected to wander onto the floor and _find_ her guests, not quite the other way around. "How may I help ya?"

The woman straightened and rounded the bend, smiling a small grin in return. She was a pretty lady, with gold hair that hung around her shoulders in ocean waves. She probably had a great figure too, but Leona couldn't tell with that unfitted peach blazer she wore buttoned up to the hollow of her throat, paired with those shapeless, faded black slacks.

Leona's inner stylist cried out, almost screaming profanity at the scuffed combat boots she noticed were on the blonde's feet.

"I'm looking for Jack Parton. He's a real estate agent with the city. We had agreed to meet here prior to making a few appointments with the owners of a few prospective townhouses. I didn't see him outside. Do you perhaps know where he is?"

Her formality impressed Leona.

Most of the clients Jacky picked up out of run-down coffee shops and second-hand stores weren't all that bright. Most, actually, spoke nearly no English. To say the least, it was a pleasant surprise to hear the primness in her voice, see the reserved smile on her face; as opposed to the usual elbow in her ribs, wide-cracked grin, waggling eyebrows, and language barrier.

"Oh, Jacky," Leona half-laughed, throwing a dismissive hand towards the heavy drapery marked, "EMPLOYEE'S ONLY'. "He's in the bac'. Just got in. Give'em a moment to settle 'imself? I promise he'll be out in just a moment." Skipping forward, Leona swung around to the blonde woman's right side, cupping her elbow in her one hand and her wrist in the other.

"Won'tcha have a look'see?" Leona gently guided the woman back onto the floor, grinning so big that her eyes nearly disappeared into her cheeks. Her English charm was perhaps the best thing both she and Jack had going for them right now. She would distract the client, sneak back to fix Jacky's mauled face, thus protecting his "immaculate" reputation. "There's many beautiful flowers, pick any ya like! It's on me."

"Oh, that is-isn't necessary, Miss! R-Really," the blonde stammered, clearly caught off guard by the offer. Leona could feel the woman tense beneath her hands, her once calm body becoming stiff and stone-like. She took a warrior stance, the redhead could tell, by the way the woman planted her feet after Leona had directed her at a table full of brightly colored tulips. She seemed absolutely lethal, with the way she looked down through her eyelashes at the redhead, scrutinizing, eyes narrowed, fists clenched.

Backing off, Leona smiled again, spinning herself in a quick circle before gesturing at the table with both arms, offering again. "Please, I _insist_. Every woman deserves a…"

She trailed off, brows furrowing, in her peripheral catching the shadow of the dark figure near the far right corner of the store, near the feature of Valentine Day themed cards.

She knew who it was the moment her vision shifted fully to the shadow. After all, the simple sight of the v his shoulder-blades made in the back of his gray button-up made butterflies explode into life in her stomach.

She knew who it was just by the way those pin-striped slacks hugged his bottom slightly before cascading down to those genuine-leather shoes. She knew who it was by his lithe build, his height, the narrowness of his hips.

She knew who it was because the light made his onyx hair shine blue, because of the fabric knot at the back of his head, slightly hidden beneath a piece of his dark locks.

She felt the smile come then, knowing exactly who the girl standing so stiffly at her side was.

"I suppose she's a keeper, huh?" Leona called over to the man, disregarding the sentence she had stopped in the middle of, putting her hands on her hips and nodding her chin off to him. "You've neva' brought a girl to see me before, Sebastian. I can only assume that she means something _quite _significant to you."

"**Excuse me**?" the blonde squeaked, reeling to face the redhead.

In the same moment, the dark-haired figure shifted slightly to face to two women, his lips pursed into a line. Despite the huge pirate patch that covered his bad eye and the unhappy look on his face, he still looked gorgeous.

Leona threw the blonde a small, knowing smile, "No need to be bashful, love. Sebastian's in here nearly everyday buying bouquets for what I assumed were his _ladies_." The redhead winked as Sebastian's jaw dropped, his good eye widening. "But, I see that Mr. Brumby here has decided to rest his heart in a single pair of hands."

Leona grinned wildly and grabbed Sebastian's lover by her wrists, twirling her in a small circle. The blonde's movements were not nearly as fluid or joy-filled as Leona's, but she followed stiffly in suit.

"Lucky you, getting such a handsome man," the redhead's nose crinkled as she reached forward the pinched the taller woman's cheek, not quite liking the fact that her smile had dropped completely from her face. "I understand now why you declined my offer. I'm sure your just _sick_ of plants."

Leona turned to look at Sebastian again, face dropping into a scowl, "Jazz it up a bit, will you? Not that I don't enjoy your visits and money, but chocolate is a handy and sensible gift."

The man continued to gape, staring at the redhead looking very much like a fish out of water. Leona furrowed her brows slightly, letting her breath out in a slight whoosh of confusion, her eyes flickering from the blonde, to the man, and back again. The woman looked downright angry, and Sebastian, well, was speechless.

"Am I missing something?" Leona laughed uneasily in a question, looking between the couple.

The blonde didn't say anything. She simply reached down, to the waistband of her skirt beneath her untucked button-up.

Leona hadn't noticed the holster that suddenly came into view as the blonde's wrist forced the hem of the blouse up. So naturally, she didn't notice the gleaming, black-gray metal pistol that the woman now fingered out of it's hiding place.

Shifting the weapon into her hand so naturally it _couldn't _be natural, the blonde raised the gun, her arm out straight, wrist parallel to her shoulder. She shifted back on her right, booted heel and with her thumb clicked off the safety.

"Oh, dear, there's no need to shoot up the place now," Leona said, a note of fear splaying across her usual cheerie tone. Perhaps her English charm wasn't all it was cracked up to be. "A simple conversation can clear…"

**BANG. **

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note**:

I swear, this chapter has undergone more revisions than anything else I have written. I've read it over at least a hundred and fifty times. =(


	4. Swirling

**Author's Note**: More insight into Roy's current state of mind.

The end of chapter three will pick up in chapter five.

* * *

Illusions of the Sun 

A Roy Mustang Love Story

04; Swirling

The phone rang three times before she answered, her tone brisk and brief. So formal it made Roy consider hanging up.

"About yesterday," the man started, clenching the receiver in his hand so tightly he was sure his knuckles were white. He hoped she wouldn't make him say it, relive the pain, his breakdown. He glanced fleetingly out his window, looking for strength, finding that fifteen trashcan's marked, "MIA'S PIZZA SHOP" did nothing to boost his moral, nor did the vandalized red-brick behind those _rubbish_ containers.

Oh, fuck.

His heart dropped low, devastatingly low in his chest.

Roy's thoughts went to that uncomfortable whirling, that slide-show of imagines and murmurs and memories that the booze usually downplayed but never completely numbed. Inhaling sharply, not quite hearing the voice that spoke to him through the receiver, he stumbled, clenching his head with his free hand, in search of a full bottle.

A quick survey of the messy room indicated that there were only four empty bottles and about fifteen empty beer cans strewn about the nearly empty apartment, placed in the oddest places of his mix-matched furniture. A vodka bottle was pushed between two ratty cushions on his couch; three cans of beer were stacked into a pyramid on his television; and a nice, squared glass container named respectfully "JACK DAN WHISKY" was positioned lip-down on the coffee table, four cans carefully placed on each side of the bottle to keep it standing strong.

Roy wished he had that support system. The bitterness of his lack of it rose like bile in his throat, nearly mentally choking him into beautiful-black oblivion.

Fucking booze. Bailing on him in his time of need. Muthafucka's. He'd fucking sign all those vacant, useless pieces of crap up for active duty. Right when he'd call war on anything and everything.

Right when the whole fucking country would go to hell.

That would teach those _traitors_.

**Oh**, his head spun. Was he drunk? No. He couldn't be. Because he wouldn't have remembered Hannah's phone number if he was. Why had he called Hannah in the first place anyway? _Oh yeah_. To apologize for that little fit yesterday. That little fit he had when he remembered…

Suddenly, Roy fell to his knees, the wooden floor echoing beneath him, too-familiar pain coursing through his body.

_When he remembered the dream about her. _

There was a voice at his ear again, bringing him away from his chaotic, unnatural thoughts. The hum of the booze wasn't there to stop him from lifting back into the place he where he was, right now. And he almost hated the tone of the voice shouting at him, beckoning him back into reality.

_"Answer me right now or I swear I'll call Riza," _the voice was filled with static, but the threat was clear.

Riza. Oh Riza. Hawkeye didn't like him when he was like this. When he was absolutely mad with whatever emotions were tumbling inside of him. Riza liked strong Roy, cocky Roy, bad-ass Roy. Not silent Roy, crying Roy, or even rip-out-my-heart Roy.

He always thought the Emo-angst-fuck-my-life thing some teenagers pulled was kind of appealing. And he, being the most sought after womanizer in all of Artemis, should have been able to pull that shit off so well even the pretty ones would smear off their eyeliner and bow to his Godliness.

_But you're not the old Mustang anymore. _

_You're not strong._

_You're not appealing. _

_You're _nothing_. _

Roy hadn't realized that Hannah was counting off, like he was a child who had done something horribly wrong and was being timed to fix the fuck up.

"_Two_," she sang.

"I'm here," he coughed, forcing his thoughts to stop blending together and making a mess of themselves. He cleared his throat, sitting back on his heels, not quite remembering why or how he got on the floor and politely apologized for his rudeness yesterday.

"_It was hardly anything I haven't dealt with before…. Sebastian_," Hannah sighed when he was finished saying his sorries, pausing and more inquiring her choice of name than sighing its syllables as well.

He nodded, knowing that all the lines in this part of the city were probably tapped by some secret military jamboree that was waiting for any chance to overhear a discussion by Furher Mustang. The address of his residence was top-secret information. But, through word of some blabbering mouth, the men who wished him out of office had gotten a tip that he lived somewhere downtown.

No, his true name couldn't be risked.

"Yes, well, it was humiliating to say the least," he replied, trying to imitate the same voice Hannah had used when she had answered the phone. "I just wanted to say thanks for dealing so well with my little break down."

"_All part of the job, Mr. Brumby_."

Roy could almost hear the smile in her voice.

He only wished he could force one onto his own.

"_Our session is scheduled for tomorrow, at 11 A.M.," _Hannah said, her voice prim and proper again, all traces of that familiar fondness disappearing. "_Can I expect to see you_?"

_See him_?

Wait, why was he doing this again?

Silence passed between them as he stumbled to his feet and swayed to the window overlooking the side of Mia's Pizza shop. In the contrast between the light outside and the darkness inside the room Roy could make out his reflection on the glass.

He looked horrible, pale and exhausted. His eyes were heavy, eyelids dropping over irises that had once struck terror into his men. If he was still the old Roy, he wouldn't be hiding out in the middle of the fucking ghetto of Central, fearing of people who would do anything to get their hands around his throat. If he was still the old Roy, he wouldn't look a fraction as shitty as he did right now; his shoulders would not sag, his lips would not be cracked, and his clothes certainly would not consist of a pair of shorts and a put-on-backward white-tee.

If he were the old Roy, he wouldn't be on the phone to Hannah now, grieving over the fact that he had no booze, harping over the notion that the best thing in his life didn't want him anymore.

If he were the old Roy, the nightmares that had haunted him daily wouldn't have such a profound, and devastating effect on his person.

Maybe if he could sleep long enough to find some rest, the guilt would stop, the hurting would stop. Maybe, somewhere, he would be able to find the old Roy again. The one everyone had admired and adored.

Just maybe…

"Yes, of course, Hannah," he replied, lightly. "I will see you tomorrow."

The goodbyes were utterly too briefly to be considered farewells. The click on the other side of the receiver made Roy instinctively drop it to the floor.

The thought dawned on him immediately.

_Hannah had the pills. _

If he could get the pills, everything would be all right again.

If he could sleep, things would go back to the way they were when he was the old Roy.

Those men wouldn't pester him when he was the old Roy, the girls' would fall over him again too, and he would be the confident, arrogant bastard ever to walk the earth. If _only _he could get the pills.

He knew it.

But, that insentient stinging in his heart kept him from believing it.

Turning, he looked towards the kitchen.

Maybe there was some tequila in the fridge?


End file.
